


Tagged

by e_lucy_date



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Assertive!Top!John, Bottom!Sherlock, M/M, Smut, dog tag kink, hint of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-11
Updated: 2011-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-23 15:20:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/251879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/e_lucy_date/pseuds/e_lucy_date
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's been away. Sherlock is impatient. Oh, and he is wearing John's dog tags. Smut ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tagged

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing and intend no copyright infringement.
> 
> Effusive thanks to pinkcabbage for the beta/Brit-picking and general feedback.

_Food in the fridge. There’s actual food, in the fridge. Have you forgotten who you are? - JW_

 _Back early? – SH_

 _Obviously. Busy fighting crime? – JW_

 _Could use your medical opinion. – SH_

 _Uninterested. Require your immediate assistance here instead. – JW_

Sherlock fights a grin as he pockets his mobile. Lestrade looks at him, arms crossed, eyebrow arched. “Sorry, are we distracting you?”

“Not nearly enough. I’ve established that the break-in was fabricated, but the question you should be asking is, why here?”

“Yes, you confirmed my suspicions about the way it was ransacked,” Lestrade rubs his forehead. “And why wouldn’t it happen here? It’s the victim’s apartment.”

“He owned it, yes, but look at it. Really look. It’s decorated and furnished but not lived in. No food in the fridge, unopened staples such as flour and pasta in the cupboards. Same thing in the bathroom—not even the slightest accumulation of mildew or calcium carbonate on the fixtures and the ring around the toilet bowl from stagnant water suggests it hasn’t been used for days. It’s like a model home, a doll’s house.”

“So? Maybe he rented it out occasionally to make extra money and lived somewhere else.” Lestrade’s eyes linger on the sparsely-populated bookshelf.

“Possibly. Or he used this flat primarily for his illegitimate business meetings. We know he was a barrister and he’s still in his work clothes. Now, this flat is nice enough, but his entire outfit easily costs two months’ rent—he could afford something much, much nicer. More importantly, though, is what this complex doesn’t have: a doorman or a surveillance system in the lobby.”

Lestrade shifts his weight from his right leg to his left. Sherlock pretends he doesn’t notice, but knows it’s a sign Lestrade agrees with him.

“Furthermore, his wallet is missing but the murderer left his briefcase—which is curiously empty, I might add. Unlikely he’d bring it with him only containing business cards and pens, so, probability is that the murderer took whatever was in the briefcase. A file? Paperwork for a deal gone wrong? Incriminating evidence of some kind, almost certainly. Doubtful you’ll get much to go on from the neighbours; best try the cleaner.”

“Cleaner. Got it. I’ll let you know if we hit any other roadblocks.”

Sherlock nods, exits, and hails a cab, eager to return to Baker Street. Of course the taxi manages to catch every red light and Sherlock may very well wear out a hole in the floor from his incessant foot-tapping. He wants to text John again, he always wants to text John, but he resists. It’s John’s turn to wait, to pace around the flat and fight off silence and boredom like he’s had to this past week.

The taxi finally draws up at 221B and Sherlock pays no mind to the large tip he gives the driver, too impatient to wait for change. He takes the stairs two at a time, hoping Mrs. Hudson hasn’t chosen this exact moment to drop off a tin of biscuits, relieved to find John alone inside.

“No.”

Sherlock freezes on the spot, his arm already half-extended toward John, desperate to feel his stubble and tangle in his hair. John’s expression is not unkind, but stern enough to make Sherlock obey him without the slightest protest. He’s positioned in front of Sherlock’s room, but the wrinkle in his shirt and the Union Jack pillow propped on the sofa suggest John had been sitting there, waiting for Sherlock to arrive—

“Waiting to hear you bound up the steps, yes,” John says, and Sherlock’s eyes dart back to John’s, away from further clues.

“I know I originally told you I’d be home tomorrow, but I lied. I simply wanted to surprise you. Sentiment, and all that.” John nods towards the kitchen. “I even bought you a new set of microscope slides, wine, and loads of lube. Your favourite brand, to be exact. Grabbed so much that the bloke behind the counter gave me a discount and winked.”

For a brief moment, a hint of a grin ghosts across John’s lips but he controls it, keeping his face neutral and his voice slightly gruff.

“Get that coat off. Scarf, too. And hang them up properly.”

Without further comment, John turns sharply, entering Sherlock’s room. Sherlock, stunned for a moment, yanks at his scarf and pulls at his coat—buttons be damned. He somehow manages to settle both on their proper hooks before following John.

Sherlock’s room is messy: books and clothes and maps and newspaper clippings scattered across the floor and the vintage armchair. John knocks the clutter off the chair and sits, arms draped over the sides, legs crossed with his right ankle resting on his left knee. Sherlock moves to step forward.

“Stop there.”

Sherlock pauses.

“Did you not deduce that you should also remove your shoes?” Sherlock opens his mouth to reply but John doesn’t allow it, continuing: “They come off, as well. Now.”

Sherlock hastens to remove them, toes on one foot digging in the heel of the other, sending them flying back into the living room, socks following after.

“I thought you’d be here when I arrived. Possibly changing all my computer passwords again or, more likely, growing some awful fungus on Mrs. Hudson’s fine china.”

John’s voice has quietened significantly. Sherlock stands before him, barefoot, breathing hard and awaiting further instruction. John tilts his head to the side, folds his hands in his lap.

“You’ve got my dog tags on, haven’t you?”

This is the first time John allows Sherlock to respond and he does without hesitation: “Yes.”

“I don’t wear them, myself. But of course you already know that. I do, however, take them out once a day. I keep them in a small wooden box in the back of my underwear drawer, along with some military photos. Obviously you know that too, since you found them. How long did it take you prying? Five minutes?”

“Less than two,” Sherlock replies, his heart racing. The lowness of John’s voice, his analysis, not knowing what was coming next—exhilarating.

John grins. “Less than two. My stunning detective.” His face goes straight again, “Undress yourself.”

Sherlock’s fingers fly to his collar and John snaps, “Slowly.” Sherlock exhales in an effort to calm himself, fingers shaking as he undoes the top button.

“So imagine my surprise when I found them missing today. Coupled with the fact that my sheets are all mussed up when I know I left them tidy leads me to believe someone’s been sleeping in my bed. It’s all a bit like _Goldilocks and the Three Bears_.”

Sherlock knows John is making a reference but doesn’t give a toss as to what it is. When he doesn’t respond, John purses his lips, nods. “Right—children’s story. Deleted. How about this, then: you slept in my bed while I was gone, those tags ‘round your neck, and I bet you had a few good, long wanks. Am I right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes, halfway unbuttoned.

“Then tell me—" John takes in Sherlock’s exposed skin, the silver chain gently rolling up and down with the rise and fall of his chest. “What were you thinking about when you came?”

“You.”

“More specifically.”

“Afghanistan. You, in Afghanistan. The pictures in the box with the tags, they were older, much older, probably around the time you first enlisted. And they are poor quality, John, really, but I can see why you keep them. They’re over-exposed and nearly washed out but there’s still you, smiling, with a sense of pride and promise that is too genuine, too naïve to throw away—“

“And that got you hard?”

“No, not at all, it was imagining me there with you. Thinking about where these tags would sit on your body—well below your sternum most likely—but they come to rest right at the base of mine, can you see?”

John doesn’t give in, doesn’t let Sherlock divert him but does, very obviously, take in the view. “When you finish that last button, it’s time for the belt. And I don’t think you’ve answered my question.”

“You, and me, in the desert, the sun explosively hot. I’ve never experienced desert heat. The closest thing that I can recall was the summer of 2006, but that was just an abnormal heat wave in London. I got off thinking about that insufferable heat and blinding light and how different the sun would make your skin taste. I imagined your body against mine, outside, pressing me hard into a stone wall, hot wind and sand, sand everywhere, even grinding in my teeth as you fuck me.”

Sherlock notices how John shifts slightly in his chair at his words. Sherlock pulls his belt completely free of his trousers, works on getting them down.

“Was that all?”

“No. I was in your bed, John, the place where you first had me. I could smell traces of you in the sheets. I thought about it—our first time—and how hard you made me come. How good you felt inside me.” Sherlock is only in his briefs now, his erection obvious, and he merely raises an eyebrow to ask if he should remove them as well. John nods.

Sherlock discards the remaining material, freeing his pert cock, instinctively moving to stroke it but John stops him.

“No. Not yet. I believe you were talking about me. Keep on, then.”

Sherlock obeys, difficult though it is. Standing bare with only dog tags on, he feels simultaneously exposed and liberated. Following John’s commands is different and thrilling but seeing John’s reactions, knowing that John’s arousal is focused on him is powerful, sending a wave of heat through his body.

“I thought about how badly I wanted to touch you again, every part of you. How desperate you’d be for me.” Sherlock looks John up and down with exaggerated scrutiny, acting as if he had just arrived at the following deduction when, in fact, he noticed it earlier upon first seeing him. “Lying on Harry’s sofa—does she not have a guest bed?—waiting for her to fall asleep so that you could touch yourself and imagine it was my mouth you were fucking instead of your hand.”

John drags his gaze up, meets Sherlock’s eyes, and uncrosses his legs, spreading his thighs.

Sherlock’s legs buckle, bringing him to his knees before John. He runs his hands up John’s knees and thighs, grazing the spot where John’s erection is asserting itself through his jeans, and quickly frees him. John does not speak, only keeps his intense focus on Sherlock as he pulls John’s jeans and underwear clean off and eagerly, confidently, takes John in his hand.

The timing and positioning is new for both of them—during their relatively recent sex life, Sherlock and John have mostly tangled together at night, after a case or during the black hours of insomnia. Rarely have they had the pleasure during daylight, or on any surface other than John’s bed, and John’s never been able to so easily and completely observe Sherlock as he is now.

Sherlock is fully aware of this, aware of John’s rapt attention and the bits of sunlight catching in his own hair and reflecting off the dog tags as he glides his fist over John’s cock, licks around and under the head and right along the slit. This causes John’s first loss of complete composure as he sighs into the sensation, lets his head fall back.

John’s hips buck forward, ever so slightly, and Sherlock takes him in, tongue swirling, hand massaging his balls. John rolls his head forward again, satisfied smirk on his face as he weaves his fingers into Sherlock’s curls.

Sherlock is tempted to pull away to ask what is so amusing, but John’s gentle but firm grip on his hair prevents him from doing so. It’s not harsh, but rather encouraging, and John answers without being asked.

“Not only is it absurdly hot to watch you suck me off, but it’s also an ego boost to know that one of the rare instances you regularly choose to shut up is so you can fit my knob in your mouth.”

Sherlock hums in agreement, keeping his head tilted back to maintain eye contact with John while allowing him to take John in a bit deeper, the angle letting him nearer to the back of his throat.

Sherlock knows John will be done in watching his swollen, thick cock gliding in and out of Sherlock’s welcoming, smooth lips. As predicted, John’s breathing changes, shallow and ragged, and Sherlock can feel his muscles tightening. He hollows his cheeks, strokes with two fingers behind John’s balls, ready to swallow him down.

John’s hand is still tightly woven in Sherlock’s hair and he pulls him up before he loses control, leaning forward for an urgent, sloppy kiss. Sherlock moans into it, his tongue clashing with John’s, his body on fire. He’s been fantasizing about this moment since the second John left—earlier, even: as soon as he took the call from Harry. He feels John’s need back in return, in his forceful kisses and his deep moans.

Sherlock leans into John’s thigh to steady himself and once again palms John’s erection as John groans and bites at his lip. Sherlock begins to stroke as he moves his lips to John’s jaw, pressing hard kisses along and down his throat, roughing up his own skin against John’s stubble.

John sucks air in through his teeth as Sherlock rubs his thumb over the tip of his cock, pushing his hips up once, twice, before he stops abruptly, grabbing Sherlock’s wrist and pulling his head back.

“Get on the bed. On your back, legs spread toward me.”

He releases his grip and Sherlock rises. “Lube is on the bedside table,” John advises. “I think it’s time you got yourself ready.”

Sherlock grabs it and reclines on the mattress. John remains seated and lazily grabs the base of his cock, applying pressure there to stifle his arousal. Sherlock watches as John’s eyes linger on his reddened knees before letting his head fall back completely. He plants his feet firmly on the bed, well beyond hip-width apart, turned on by the vulnerable position.

Sherlock uncaps the lube in a fluid motion, the pop loud in the quiet room. Sherlock intentionally squirms a bit as he slicks up his fingers to tease John. His erection remains untouched, vibrant and heated, curling up against his abdomen and waiting until John gives him permission to touch it is torture.

“I want you to finger yourself,” John demands, but Sherlock hears his authoritative tone waver. “Open yourself up. Imagine it’s me.”

Sherlock writhes some more, brings his hand to his arse and presses a finger into his hole.

“You can stroke yourself, too. But gently. Can’t have you coming ahead of schedule.”

John’s grip tightens as he watches Sherlock obey, fingering and pulling at his cock in a languid rhythm, bucking into the air, moaning.

“Is this what you did in my bed?” John’s voice is thick.

“Yes,” Sherlock groans, twisting his palm.

“Did you expect this when you came home today?”

“No,” Sherlock breathes, first finger completely buried.

“I didn’t, either. But after I knew you had my tags, it couldn’t have been any other way.”

Sherlock only sighs as he presses another finger inside, lifting his hips until he hears John panting at the sight.

“What do you want?”

“I need to feel you inside me. I want you to fuck me.”

“And what makes you think I will?”

Sherlock grinds out a frustrated mumble. “Please,” he gasps.

“Maybe later,” John replies. “I might just get off watching you squirm, seeing you work that tight little arsehole while you beg. Sherlock Holmes, come undone for me.”

“Please,” Sherlock repeats, barely audible. His knees fall down to either side, his hips gyrating slowly to his own rhythm as he works in a third finger.

John rises from the chair and purposely stands in Sherlock’s line of vision, giving him a sidelong view of his thick, pulsing cock.

“When you’re ready,” John finally pulls off his jumper, the oatmeal-coloured one, the one Sherlock always finds any excuse to touch or nuzzle. “Can’t harm the world’s only consulting detective.”

Sherlock can’t pull his eyes away as John picks up the lube and prepares himself.

“I’m ready,” he purrs.

“Are you sure? We both know how you lie to get what you want.” John throws the bottle aside and it lands amongst the rest of Sherlock’s miscellany.

“Yes,” Sherlock growls. “God, yes.”

John lies down, propping his head up with a pillow, knees up and feet firmly on the mattress, mirroring Sherlock’s earlier position. “Good. Then come here and sit on my dick.”

Sherlock feels discombobulated with lust, his limbs tingly and sluggish as he pulls himself upright and straddles John. He positions himself carefully, guiding John to him before easing down. The dog tags sway in front of him, the two discs moving in a vain attempt to touch each other despite the fact that one hangs lower than the other. The edge of the bottom tag lightly grazes John’s stomach, causing him to shiver at the sensation and clutch Sherlock’s hips in a vice-like grip as he enters him.

John’s barely inside when he exhales, ”Fuck”, as long as his breath.

Sherlock’s mind is in overdrive or maybe it has just stopped working altogether as he presses down further, nearly beside himself as John goes deeper, stretching him, possessing him. John’s grip on his hips is borderline painful, will surely leave marks, but Sherlock doesn’t care.

His breath hitches as John eases all the way in, full to the hilt, better than anything. His hands are fanned out across John’s chest, steadying him, and he moves them, rubbing John’s nipples.

John bucks his hips in response, making Sherlock respond with a breathy “Oh,” and it’s a wonder he doesn’t come right then with an orgasm for the record books.

“Lean back,” John commands.

Sherlock straightens up against John’s thighs and instinctively starts to move. He lifts himself up and when he’s nearly off, John uses his grip to pull him back down, striking Sherlock’s prostate and connecting with a sharp slap of skin and a _clink_ of the dog tags from the movement.

The noise does wonders to their combined arousal—Sherlock swears he can feel John getting even harder as a beam of sunlight splays across his own lithe, pale chest. Heat builds deep inside of Sherlock as John nudges his prostate again and the dog tags bounce against him, the metal chain still surprisingly cool against his skin. Having John beneath him and inside him and his tags around him is consuming, it’s everything, it’s borderline insanity.

They increase speed and intensity: John’s hold tightens, his hips relentless as they thrust upwards and Sherlock in turn bears down harder and harder, the tags tumbling up and down, clattering in symphony with the satisfying smack of their bodies colliding.

Sherlock’s eyes are closed, face flushed and his mouth open as John growls, “Look at me,” and he does, meeting John’s focused and lustful gaze, moaning as John hits him there, right there it’s so good, but it’s not…

“John…oh God, John—I need—”

“Not enough?” John slows and Sherlock violently shakes his head, keeps rutting against him.

“Off. Hands and knees.”

Sherlock obeys, lifting off and repositioning his knees at the edge of the bed, thighs trembling as John stands behind him, aligns himself once more and pushes back in.

Sherlock’s groans are punctuated with each thrust as John moves faster and deeper in the new angle.

John’s hands are once again on Sherlock’s hips, holding him, using his grip to ride him relentlessly. The dog tags hang from Sherlock’s neck, dancing and jumping with each thrust. Sherlock knows he’s close, the moment is soon, and balances himself on one hand and grabs himself with the other as the late afternoon sun warms the room.

“You should really be able to see this,” John grunts, “How perfect you look, how outrageously tight you are.” Sherlock’s eyes nearly roll back into his head as John plunges into him, again and again. “Is this what you imagined?”

“Better.”

“Is this what you wanted?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nearly stutters.

“Yes, what?” John growls.

“Yes, _John_ ,” Sherlock gasps between thrusts, arching his back.

John leans forward, slowing his pace slightly, and plants a kiss right between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. He grabs the chain as he straightens up and gently tugs, pleasure shooting through Sherlock as he moans and pleads for more. John increases his strength, hard enough to leave a reddish mark for a few hours but not nearly hard enough to bruise or worse.

A deep, satisfied rumble comes from the back of Sherlock’s throat as he pulls against it, leans back into John with all of his strength and vigorously strokes himself.

Moments later John demands, “Come for me,” and Sherlock does, body clenching and shuddering around John, nails nearly tearing the bed sheets, vision blurred.

Sherlock feels a wave of heat throughout this body, his limbs suddenly boneless. John is still hitting his prostate and Sherlock moans at the over-stimulation as he lowers the top half of his body closer to the mattress. The ball chain bites at his neck and John’s fingernails almost break skin as he comes, sandwiching Sherlock’s name between a jumble of profanities.

John immediately releases the chain and softens his grip on Sherlock’s hip, rubbing slow circles, panting. Sherlock’s chest is heaving rapidly, bliss fading. John brings his other hand to Sherlock’s back, tenderly pulls out and collapses on the bed next to him, spent. Sherlock joins him, deliberately avoiding the messy spots where he came, rolling to his side to face John.

They lie like this a few moments, silent as their laboured breathing slows. The sun is close to setting, the glow making the room orange. Neither says a word but the mood has changed completely: not nearly as urgent or forceful, but calm and relaxed. It’s almost as if they’re seeing each other for the fist time that day as John rather sheepishly says, “Hi.”

Sherlock grabs John’s hand, kisses the back of it and grins, “Afternoon.”

John laughs, a single, amused shout, hair mussed and looking drained but sated. He leans in and kisses Sherlock properly, slow and patient and exploratory.

The room changes from deep amber to the subdued blues of near-night as they lounge, silent, enjoying being in close proximity to one other. Sherlock realises he’s hungry—he went to Waitrose because it was something to do and because it reminded him of John but he had no desire to actually _eat_ —and he’s about to start whinging until John makes him some food or orders takeaway when he notices a vacant expression on John’s face, his mind elsewhere, detached.

He had texted John daily when he was away. Every hour, to be exact, until John turned off his phone, but they were all inanities: _Angelo’s sommelier friend wants to have a threesome with us_ and _We’ll need a new set of teacups, best not to ask why._

Now, Sherlock gently rubs his thumb against John’s hand and asks, “How’s Harry?”

“Good,” John clears his throat, blinks. “She’s good. Best she’s ever been.”

Sherlock knows well enough that he’s lying but he does not comment. John’s cheeks are still flushed and his eyelashes somehow manage to catch the remnants of light in the room. Sherlock is struck with the sweetness of his early return home, the slides and the wine.

He kisses John’s forehead, soft and chaste. John meets his eyes and Sherlock sees in them traces of his old military photos: hopeful and proud, brave and dedicated. “I missed you,” he whispers, the words feeling dangerous, foreign. “I missed you very much.”

John smiles, big and genuine, as he entwines his other hand in the dog tag chain, rubbing the discs together, the metal still warm from their shared body heat. “I missed you, too.”


End file.
